


Betwixt and Between

by valjean



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Existential Crisis, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hopeful Ending, Internal Conflict, M/M, Religious Guilt, Time Skips, aziraphale just doesnt want to get kicked out of heaven ok, no beta we die like men, self indulgent bs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 11:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19973131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valjean/pseuds/valjean
Summary: Falling may feel like an eternity, although it really only lasts for a few seconds.





	Betwixt and Between

**Author's Note:**

> this is a rewrite of something i wrote w my friend in august... i was wondering if angels would face existential dilemmas too. *i put my lips right against the microphone* this isn't proofread and is probably incoherent ... i should be sleeping
> 
> title based off betwixt and between by albert camus

Falling, for the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, has always been rather inevitable.

“Aziraphale?”

And _oh,_ it appears to be happening _now_.

**__________**

Where is the beginning?

It all began with meeting Crowley, some six thousand odd years ago. With Crowley came the dawn of the Arrangement and the ineffability of the Ineffable Plan. No, actually, that’s a lie. It began on the day Aziraphale became… Aziraphale. It began on the day he became who he was, it began with Heaven, and it began with humans. It began with circumstances (God, _everything_ seemed to be up to circumstances) and it began with an independent conscience. 

He loosened the hold he had on the flaming sword as he passed the weapon into another pair of anxious hands, his fingers unravelling around the grip and briefly brushing over Adam’s palm. There was a nod— a silent gesture of respect and mutual understanding. 

“I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing,” Aziraphale told the serpent shortly afterwards. 

“You’re an angel. I don’t think you _can_ do the wrong thing.”

When droplets of rain began to fall, Aziraphale lifted a wing over Crawly’s head. A glance was exchanged between them, much like the unspoken nod from Adam, but Crawly’s eyes conveyed more than hesitant gratitude. He looked at him with stifled compassion. Between them, they had just formed some sort of universal truce, unsure of what exactly their unspoken reciprocity entailed. 

Never underestimate the importance of a first impression.

**__________**

There was always this sort of diabolical-like voice that lingered in the background, intertwining itself within his vocal chords, nestling comfortably between the crevasses of his mind. By no means was this voice intrinsically evil, it simply conjured a few ideas here and there that went against Heaven’s will. Unconventional ideas. Thoughts about morality and God and the universe and Crowley.

And Aziraphale, he was better than that voice. The Almighty and the Great Plan were _better_ than the occasional thoughts in his mind, the questions and opinions and fantasies he had.

But not really—

_But maybe—_

**__________**

There had never been an arrangement quite like the Arrangement. At first, they only spoke occasionally, but interactions were bound to occur when an angel and a demon elected to take turns doing each other’s chores. Was it really all that sinful? If so, then what about those moments when everything felt inexplicably _right?_

They laughed often. They laughed about themselves, about others, about the universe and all of the things it entailed. Aziraphale finally realized that his loneliness was gone— a loneliness that he had never truly acknowledged in the first place. 

_Lonely._ The word felt heavy on his tongue and he thought fondly of the demon’s warm smile. How had he survived for so long while missing something he didn’t even know he needed?

Was it better to be lonely? It seemed like a foolish question, yet Aziraphale understood that ignorance was bliss. He had spent several lifetimes sheltered from the hollowing tug of isolation, instead basking within a state of anesthetizing oblivion, unaware of the expanding void inside of him. He didn’t know how lonely he truly was only because he had never known anything else. If this peacefulness abandoned him, if that impossible weight was dropped upon him once again, would it not feel heavier the second time around? To be given a taste of contentment only to have it taken away and be left with its lingering ghost— would that not hurt worse than having never tasted anything at all?

Crowley, he really was Aziraphale’s _friend._ After being surrounded by angels and humans and demons, they discovered the sacred fact that neither of them were any of those things. Crowley was in no way the epiphany of a true demon, and by Heaven’s standards, Aziraphale didn’t expect to maintain a positive angel status for much longer. But they weren’t humans either— no, they were simply _them._ Two souls bound together, separated from the rest of the world. 

“We’re on _our side._ ” Crowley had said to him prior to the almost-Armageddon, and Aziraphale couldn’t think of a better way to describe it. They were their own entity. Something collective. Connected and merged.

This was when he quite literally began to fall— away from Heaven and more and more in love with Crowley.

**__________**

Seeing Crowley became a blessing and a curse, especially after they helped save the world.

Now left alone by their separate parties after completely bewildering them, the world for Aziraphale and Crowley felt normal. It was foreign. This new sort of tranquility had been established between them and the remainder of the universe and it was as if, for the first time in six thousand years, they could simply _be_. They could exist.

bit·ter·sweet  
adjective: bitter-sweet; adjective: bittersweet  
arousing pleasure tinged with sadness or pain.

And sometimes, during that well-earned hiatus from disaster, Crowley would absentmindedly rest a hand on Aziraphale’s knee after sharing some exquisite champagne, instantly sending a jolt of excitement throughout his corporeal form. It was lust. It was guilt. It was wrong. It was—

_”You are an angel and I am a demon.”_

After a day consisting of shameful and humiliating thoughts, when Aziraphale looked in the mirror, he’d half-heartedly expect to spot another face behind him. A mask of some sort— something strange and unknown, covered in fangs and bearing pointed teeth that pierced the flesh of the innocent, or a head with red horns and rolled back eyes. 

But all he would ever see was his own face: a solitary reflection that stared back at him with a blank expression. Was that what he was supposed to see? That he was his own demon on his shoulder?

The sixty four dollar question: what kind of angel is resented by Heaven? 

Aziraphale was no human caught in some existential haze relentlessly questioning the meaning of life and the existence of God. He knew all too well that She was there. He knew of Heaven and angels and Hell and demons— there was no denial in any spiritual existence, more in where he actually fit into all of it. 

He didn’t, he concluded soon enough. He didn’t fit in— not in Heaven or Hell or Earth. In stopping a war, he lost what was his home, his meaning. He cursed himself for everything, trailing all the way back to that damned flaming sword.

**__________**

Aziraphale kissed Crowley first.

He found himself backed against a bookshelf up in his flat after teasing Crowley in a haze of drunken shenanigans. His face was inches away from the demon’s exasperated scowl, mirroring their encounter in the manor. He couldn’t understand why Crowley cared so much about being called nice anyway, it wasn’t like Hell was keeping track anymore.

“How many times must I explain,” Crowley, evidently worked up, emphasized each word as he hit them home, “I am, and I stress this to you, _not nice._ ” 

But Aziraphale didn’t hear him— not really, not when he was suddenly very aware of the imperceptible amount of distance that was between them. Crowley’s features, so close to his own face, were beautifully distinguishable and radiant in the dimly lit room. His glasses were off, golden eyes exposed and now void of any frustration as they searched the angel’s face meaningfully. Aziraphale could see his own reflection through the black slits of Crowley’s pupils and to perceive himself through such an intimate perspective made him forget all about his usual suspicions of seeing some kind of monster instead of himself in the mirror. 

Aziraphale shifted his gaze down to Crowley’s parted lips before sheepishly meeting his eyes for a second time. It was futile. Crowley looked at him in a way that made Aziraphale think of Eden— the look they exchanged as he sheltered the long-haired demon with his wing, then once again many centuries later when his books were preserved after an explosion.

An unspoken question passed between them. It was followed by an unspoken answer.

Aziraphale slowly brought a hand to the demon’s cheek then promptly closed the gap between them. He kissed Crowley chastely, brushing their lips together with great caution.  
Just as eyes were fluttering shut, Aziraphale pulled back to search his face for any hesitation. 

He opened his mouth to say something— to ask for reassurance, but to no avail found himself utterly speechless as dueling amounts of excitement and humiliation fought within his chest, trying to find a balance. 

Crowley seemed equally dumbfounded. They both stood in silence that could have been bearable if they hadn’t both sobered up. 

“I… Again. Do it again, angel,” Crowley spoke hoarsely after a long moment. 

“Okay, I suppose I shall.”

When Aziraphale leaned in for a second time, Crowley had to take a moment to relearn how to function before properly returning the kiss. There rested thousands of years of tension, of unspoken love and unvisited want, unravelling at their feet all at once. The pace of the kiss changed instantly, Aziraphale swiping his tongue against Crowley’s bottom lip as he enthusiastically granted him access into his mouth. 

Crowley tasted like the stardust they were made of. He tasted like everything Aziraphale could have ever imagined— a campfire on a cool summer night lingered on his lips and his tongue burned of a pleasant sort of hellfire. It was lovely and unbelievably intoxicating. Eventually, he pulled back, a hand resting on Crowley’s hip and another tangled in his hair. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said with a shocking amount of composure, “How long?”

“When you— when you saved those books. When you handed me the bag. When you hopped around that church like a complete fool. When you _saved_ me, my dear.” His heart raced faster than the Bentley in central London. Thoughts of Heaven and all traces of hesitation and shame were abandoned. Love was caged within his ribs, consuming his form and rendering into what he had always been: a being of true love.

**__________**

It was two months later when Aziraphale posed the question: _what am I?_

The backroom of his bookshop never felt so small.

He had been on edge for the entire afternoon. He felt an uneasiness crawling up his spine, a hesitancy that left his consciousness shifting in and out of focus. He skimmed over the same passage of a Dickens novel several times without absorbing a single word, then tossed the book aside in blatant frustration “It isn’t over.” He found himself suddenly saying to Crowley, who was splayed lazily upon the settee across from him. “Heaven _will_ come back for me, and this time I fear it will be the Almighty. I’m not an angel, Crowley, not really. I’m going to fall soon. I couldn’t even... I couldn’t even do _that_ right, I couldn’t just be who I was _suppossed_ to be.”

Crowley uncrossed his legs and sat up cautiously. “Where is this coming—”

“I don’t know, dear.” Aziraphale continued, his voice wavering outside of his control. “I’m not an angel. What am I, then? If not an angel? Nothing? Just some... some _thing?_ Some immortal being with no purpose, too bad for Heaven and too proper for Hell?”

When he felt Crowley beside him, either speaking words of reassurance or caught in uncertain silence, he blindly reached out to embrace him.

“What am I going to do with myself? Exist forever restlessly? Crowley, please. What _am I?_ ” He repeated the muffled question against the demon’s chest over and over until the words, too, became nothing.

**__________**

“Angel, what’s that?” Crowley asked one night as he traced mindless patterns with his finger along Aziraphale’s back.

“Hm?” 

“Your, erm, wings. There’s a spot on one of them. A little black one.”

Aziraphale propped himself up and turned his head to see what he could of his wings. Sure enough, Crowley’s index finger rested upon a spot that looked just as he described: a small, black jolt contrasted with the angelic whiteness that he had always tried his best to maintain. Immediately, he felt unbearably nauseous.

“Ah, just a stain.” He forced himself to respond evenly, “Nothing to worry about.”

He could conceal his nerves, couldn’t he? There was no need to panic.

“Aziraphale...”

 _Bugger._ Crowley knew him too well. 

“... I was making a nebula up in Heaven when I realized that I had a few dark patches on my wings. It bothered me quite a bit. Always did my best to keep them groomed. If I only knew at the time what the discoloration would entail…”

“Crowley, it's nothing to worry about.” 

“Aziraphale, I really—”

Aziraphale covered Crowley’s mouth with his own, a strategy he often turned to in such circumstances.

“This isn’t a good sign.” Crowley said finally between a kiss, stubborn to drop the subject, stroking Aziraphale’s jaw tenderly with a thumb. 

lI know.” He swallowed, smoothed Crowley’s hair back, and pressed his lips against his forehead. “It's inevitable, really.”

“Ineffable.” Crowley said.

“Ineffable.” He echoed then rolled onto his back. The whirl of the ceiling fan mocked him from above.

**__________**

_mo·ral·i·ty  
noun  
principles concerning the distinction between right and wrong or good and bad behavior._

Aziraphale stared down at the dictionary in his lap. 

“Y’know, Aziraphale, a moral system valid for all is basically immoral.” Crowley quipped from behind, both of his hands gripping onto the headrest of Aziraphale’s chair.

He closed the book. “Who says that?”

“Nietzsche. He also says that fear is the mother of morality.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said with a sigh, “Nietzsche is in Hell.”

“Right. Plato... or was it Kant? I really don’t care. Anyways, somebody said—”

“Hell, Crowley. All philosophers are in Hell, and I mean _all of them_. You should know this.”

Aziraphale wasn’t all that concerned about ethics. He knew that being fundamentally good was far more complicated than following some categorical imperatives. He was searching for justification, either for himself or the entirety of Heaven. One or the other _had_ to be good. There had to be hope for the universe.

He knew his time was soon.

**__________**

His wings are pulsating against the fabric of his clothing. It’s really going to happen now, isn’t it? Right here, in his damned flat, a little after dinner on a Sunday. He didn’t… he didn’t even _do_ anything today. He said ‘bugger’ once, maybe. _Maybe._

“Aziraphale?” Crowley keeps repeating, and he’s removed one of his earbuds now. Queen’s _Love of My Life_ is playing faintly out of the exposed one and it’s ironic, really. He’s in that stance again, too, the _should I get up? Are you okay?_ posture on the armchair across from him. 

His wings are really cramping, so he anxiously begins to undo his bow tie, still sitting down on the sofa. Crowley glances at him and somehow a sense of understanding passes between them. These silent comprehensions have become a rather frequent occurrence by now, so Crowley runs to sit with him. 

There’s a shift. It may be physical or just in Aziraphale’s own mind. It could be the weight of Crowley now next to him or something entirely different. He’s losing his grip even as Crowley clutches tightly at his arm. He has to stand up to shrug off his coat and work at the buttons of his shirt, so Crowley stands up with him, no words spoken between them. 

This silence is strange. It’s not like the quietness that fills a hospital room when the darkness can’t form on a doctor’s tongue. It isn’t the long delay as a guilty man wordlessly wrings his hands after entering a confession box, nor the pregnant pause of a disappointed mother.

Aziraphale stifles the questions lined up along the seam of his lips.

He rids himself of his shirt but his back still feels as if it’s on fire. He allows his wings to stretch out and then he simply stands there, facing Crowley, feeling more exposed than he ever thought was possible.

Exposure. Only the center of him feels truly visible in this moment, only the rough core of his fallen soul. There parts of him that are very, very sharp, like pieces of expensive china that have been thrown disastrously at the ground in the rage of a drunken father. He should really put these pieces of him in jars or something, instead of leaving them out and around like this; collect the fragments of himself and sort them into boxes.

_Oh, and his wings—_

“Aziraphale…” Crowley chokes out, the slits in his eyes becoming an expanding abyss. It’s an eclipse: the darkened pupils have overcasted his golden irises, glistening with forming tears that aren’t yet falling. “Your wings.”

The aching stops and he no longer feels anything. The only sound is that of a heart pounding in an empty chest, echoing off the walls of a body. There's a brief sentiment of community between molecules where everything feels perfectly still and Aziraphale musters enough confidence to turn his head around and see that, yes, his wings are scattered in large, dark patches. He might as well be looking into the eye of a hurricane.

He wonders distantly if he’ll ever see Crowley again. 

There’s a blinding flash, some cartoonish nonsense. It’s Gabriel, who now stands behind Crowley. The Archangel _Fucking_ Gabriel, that is, in case emphasis was required. And he’s got that bloody grin on his face, the kind that irks Aziraphale in ways he never thought possible. 

“Aziraphale, long time no see!” Gabriel nods in his direction then makes a point of briefly regarding Crowley, “I see you’ve got the demon Crowley here.”

Crowley says nothing. His shoulders hunch. Maybe it’s an unintentional reflex. 

“Right. Well,” the Archangel carelessly waves and summons what seems to be a scroll. “I’ve got a script here, but I’m not the best at reading these. What are you?” He squints at Aziraphale, a grimace that almost looks painful plastered across his face. “The… the Principality Aziraphale? Was that what we called you? Oh, well, not like it matters anyway. You’ve fallen, my good friend.”

Aziraphale absentmindedly puts a finger up to his lips. “I see.”

“It says here…” Gabriel begins with a more dutiful tone, the scroll’s astonishing length unravelling across the carpeted floor. “This is a list of your wrongdoings, I believe.” 

_Oh._

“So, I’ll just read off from the beginning here. It says here…” Gabriel suddenly purses his lips and masks himself with an unreadable expression. “You fed someone’s horse when they _specifically_ asked you not to. Really, Aziraphale? If someone’s got an animal and they say _hey man, don’t feed my horse,_ you feed it? Really?”

“I —”

“Then we’ve got the whole flaming sword business. That’s rather famous though, isn’t it?”

For the entire duration of this interaction, Crowley simply stares down at his snakeskin boots. His eyes are empty. His bottom lip is quivering. 

Gabriel spends some time muttering the scroll’s text silently to himself before drawing back in disgust. “I… you know what? I don’t have to read all of this out, you know? I feel like this is pretty straightforward, you guys. Aziraphale, you’ve fallen! Congratulations on being the worst!”

A sinister echo fills the room. _The worst! The worst! The worst!_

Gabriel disappears, as comically as he came, and Aziraphale and Crowley are left there. There’s a twenty-two second interval— the angel counts when nervous— before anything resumes. Twenty-two seconds where now, Aziraphale’s world is tilting further and further towards the edge and black spots begin to leak through his vision. Crowley stares at him blankly for a moment before snapping into action. 

“Angel,” he’s wild-eyed and clearly filled with more dread than his corporeal form can handle. “You’ll survive this, I’m telling you.”

“What if I don’t?” Aziraphale asks carefully.

“You die, like _really_ die, Aziraphale. But you won’t! I’m going to be by your side the entire time, okay? I’m not about to leave you. It’ll all be fine. Everything’ll be alright.” It’s an anxious promise that makes with an anxious voice and trembling hands. Aziraphale remains in place, taking it all in, not quite feeling anything.

And suddenly he’s finding that his eyelids are a tad bit heavy. Twenty-two seconds have passed. He shuts them momentarily; it’s just a regular blink, the way you blink when you’re dozing off during an old film or staring up at the ceiling of your bedroom in nervous contemplation. When Aziraphale reopens his eyes a millisecond later, he finds himself in heaven, Crowley’s cry echoing through his mind before dissolving into oblivion.

“Oh.” He appears to be alone. It’s an odd sight, seeing Heaven empty.

Aziraphale has never been particularly fond of the way Heaven looks, especially the part of it that he’s just been summoned to. It’s not heavenly in the slightest. It isn’t beautiful in the way one might imagine that Heaven would be. It’s just this white, infinite room. It’s scattered with these horrendous fluorescent lights that make his head feel light as they strain his eyes. He closes them and rubs his temples furiously. If this is what Falling is like, he’s more confused by it than anything. There’s no pain or agony apart from an oncoming sensory-related migraine. 

Pain and agony. He probably shouldn’t have just thought of those words.

When he opens his eyes again, it's everything at once. It's the excruciating burning and the nauseating spinning and the silenced screaming and the pained crying and in God’s name, it’s _the falling_. 

He bolts down like a rocket in reverse, engulfed by a blue flame that mimics an asteroid. He hears Crowley’s voice briefly, a drowned out “ _Aziraphale!_ ”, then it’s his own voice again, his throat and entire body inflamed as he cries out because he’s on literal God damn _fire_ and can feel the aching of his physical form that’s merely seconds away from discombobulating.

Then he hits the ground, burning through it and creating a dented crater as he does so.

Falling may feel like an eternity, although it really only lasts for a few seconds. 

Before he has time to process anything, his body is slouched against another, slender and trembling, grasping at Aziraphale’s severely damaged form as if its life depended on it.

“ _Aziraphale._ ” It’s Crowley.

A tree is overhead. Where are they? He should get up and check... 

“No, no, no,” Crowley whispers, “Don’t move. Please. You’re very, very hurt.”

Aziraphale wants to say something. How has he survived? How has Crowley found him? Did he follow him? He couldn’t— 

He tries to let out an _oh_ , but only sinks deeper into Crowley’s embrace. Aziraphale goes completely limb. He’s bleeding excessively and gosh, he better not stain the dear boy’s jacket too badly. It can be miracled away, but it will always have been there, underneath the surface. The blood and ashes. The remnants of a fallen angel.

“Those _bastards._ ” Crowley spits and Aziraphale can feel him tensing up. “They left you for dead. They left all of us for dead, and what for? ‘Cause we took a step off the moral high-ground and realized that their rules aren’t always for the greater good? It’s a crime, you know. To have a bloody conscience.”

But he deserves it, Aziraphale wants to insist. He gave away his sword and indulged in too many fancy restaurants. He abandoned his side and he had impure thoughts and he— 

“You haven’t done anything wrong.” Crowley interrupts his thoughts and rakes his fingers through a handful of the angel’s blonde, blood-matted hair. “You saved the _world_. _You saved me._. If you were condemned and your soul was damned, then how did you survive the Fall? How did I just follow you through time? How is it that we’re here, that you and I are together?”

When Crowley goes quiet, so does the entire world. Somewhere among the mess of crimson stains and scattered feathers, his hand finds Aziraphale’s. Within their palms rest the stories of their existence, rough with endless words across a grid of ash.

Against all of the odds, they’ve been reunited once again. That has to mean something. Perhaps the most beautiful of narratives are not always tragedies.

And that’s the real beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> when i was in eleventh grade composition my teacher said i was banned from using semi colons. then in 12th grade english he said i loved hyphens way too much and i’m beginning to see his point.


End file.
